Stress Relief
by AlreadyPainfullyGone
Summary: AU It's a Terrible Life 'Verse. - Dean Smitth reluctantly goes to see a doctor at a weight loss clinic. Castiel is having issues of his own, and sugessts maybe Dean's problems lie more with stress than his weight. Destiel. Will grow into PWP.
1. Chapter 1

Dean was not having the best of days.

It had been a crappy couple of months really, work snowballing until he'd had no time at all to himself, just coming in at a late hour and crawling into bed to sleep. Takeout pizza and enormous latte's just to keep going with his impossible work load. Sandover was running him into the ground and he took it, took it all, for the salary and the corner office.

And now he was sitting in a plastic chair, feeling his belt cut into his stomach as he waited for his appointment at the weight clinic.

Sam had been the one to notice, fucking Sam Wesson and his abs and his weekends of squash and running. Like Dean had time or energy for shit like that. He'd tactfully pointed out that Dean was carrying a little 'holiday weight', and perhaps he'd like to join him for a run on Saturday.

It was freaking July. Holiday weight his ass.

Dean wasn't in the habit of preening, or even really looking at himself as he showered, shoved on his suit and prepped for the morning meeting. But once it had been pointed out he couldn't not see it. The softness to his wrists and arms, the slight fleshiness of his throat and the slight curve to his stomach. Not fat, not epically overweight, but perhaps (fucking never going to live it down) chubby. He hated the word, hated the thought of being described like that, but he was stuck in his rut and he needed some help to get the weight off fast.

Hence, clinical trial.

Dean was after all, in the business of quick, precise solutions. No time for the new stringent diet and workout plan to take effect, he needed to be in shape again. His suit pants were too tight as it was, no way he could live like this another minute, let alone weeks, maybe months.

He drummed his fingers on his thigh, feeling the flesh give to the press of his finger tips. Ugh. He was gross. How had he even let this happen?

"Mr Smith?" The receptionist announces his name, checking Dean out as he walks to the door of the doctor's office. He doesn't notice her look, too busy cataloguing the many nights he failed to eat anything but drive-thru and relaxing, mind numbing, beer.

He was a fucking mess.

It didn't help that when he entered the doctor's office, the Doctor himself, dark haired and thin faced, looked up from his desk and frowned.

"Get out."

Dean stood in the doorway for a second, but then remembered that, feeling crappy or not, no one spoke to him like that and got to escape unscathed.

"Or...no." he glowers, watching the Doctor look up at him again with slightly more confusion and irritation in his eyes. "In fact I'm just going to take a seat..." Dean ambled to the chair in front of the desk. "And when you feel like doing your freaking job, you can just get on with it...I'll be waiting."

The doctor looks at him for another long, assessing moment.

Dean crosses his legs and stares right back.

The doctor sighs.

"Do you know how many women I've had in here looking for fen-phen? Or speed or whatever wonder drug they think I'm keeping to myself?" The doctor sighs again, running a weary hand through his tangled dark hair. "Healthy women, perfectly healthy, point of fact." He glowers across the desk. "I refuse to deal with another obsessed diet victim looking for a quick fix to a problem they don't have – so like I said, please leave."

"Actually you said 'Get Out' and none too politely at that." Dean taps his fingers on the edge of the desk. "And I actually have a problem, so like _I _said – when you're ready. Doctor."

The guy stares some more, like he thinks that'll make Dean get the hell out and leave him alone.

Ok, so it almost works, but he's frigging desperate here.

"What problem?" The doctor asks eventually, stony and disbelieving.

"Well...it's a weight loss clinic, and your eyes probably work or they'd take your license." Dean's uncomfortable enough thinking about the extra pounds he's carrying, without having to explain to someone else. "I have weight...I want to lose it. Fast."

"I reiterate – get out." The doctor points at him with his pen fiercely.

"Or, you could help me." Dean persists. "Look, I came all the way down town on my one day off all month just to see you – I'm huge ok? Fix it."

The doctor looks at him speculatively.

"Fine. Get on the scale." He gestures towards a large, iron contraption across the room and Dean gets up and reluctantly toes off his shoes to hop onto it. He doesn't even want to look at the number.

The doctor looks at the display and frowns.

"Let me take your blood pressure." He says, not waiting for a response before slapping the cuff around Dean's arm and puffing it up painfully tight.

"Ow." He says pointedly, but apparently Mr. What's-bedside-manner? doesn't either notice or care.

"Ok, take a seat." The doctor says, banishing the blood pressure cuff back to whatever corner he'd spirited it from earlier.

"Mr..." he pauses.

"Smith." Dean supplies.

"Your blood pressure is very high and you're right to think that you are, perhaps, a little overweight."

Dean snorts inelegantly. A little. Compared to what? His other, twenty-five stone patients?

"Do you experience a lot of stress at home, or work?" He says, like he's reading it off a cue card.

"Maybe...but it's busy right now, I'll take a break when it dies down."

"Hmmm." Says the doctor like he's unconvinced.

"Look, Dr..." he looks down at the name plate on the desk. "Wow, that's long."

"It's Russian." He says, dead pan. "Stick to Cas if it's easier for you."

"First or last name?" Dean frowns.

"It's just my name." He says, unhelpfully.

"Anyway, look, I just came for the drugs, ok? I need to get back in shape, fast."

"Doesn't mean you qualify, have you tried running, lean protein, switching up your diet?" he reels off.

"I don't have time. I have meetings, paper work to plough through, conference calls to take, important shit, you know? I don't have time to count calories and...take lunchtime yoga, ok? I need something that will work soon, and without screwing my job up." He clenches his hands together.

"This is important to you isn't it?" Cas says, after a pause. Then, "Have you considered stress relief..." he says gently.

Dean huffs a bitter laugh and realises, weirdly, that he's breathing heavily. He's on the edge of a panic attack, and he hasn't had one since he was thirteen. "Yeah, again with the _time _thing. I. Don't. Have. Time, to relax...I barely have time to sleep."

"There are various techniques, meditation, excercise, you already mentioned yoga..."

"Yeah, and its bullshit." Dean grimaces. "I get recommendations for this stuff all the time from people I barely know...and none of it works."

The doctor looks at him speculatively, and Dean waits for his next words, fully prepared to leave now that his dignity is well and truly in tatters.

"Have you tried masturbating?" Is not what he expected the doctor to say, especially not as blank faced as he's been the whole time they've been talking.

Dean chokes on his own spit.

Cas watches him with vague concern as Dean hacks up half a lung and thumps himself on the chest.

"...or you could try warm milk." Cas adds, deadpan.

"You can't...just...ask me that." Dean gasps out eventually.

"It's a very helpful tool for combating stress." The doctor slips into his lecturing tone. "Orgasm releases chemicals in the brain that promote relaxation and rest."

"I'll keep that in mind." Dean says numbly. Cas seems to take this answer as positive, because he nods in a 'so you should' kind of way.

"So...that was fun...now do I get the drugs?" Dean looks down at the paperwork under Cas's hands.

"No...but you should come and see me in a week, I might have something for you then." The doctor says, giving him a perfunctory look over that says clearly 'you can go'.

Dean blinks for a second, then leaves the room wondering if Cas has just been messing with him for twenty minutes.

But he makes another appointment.


	2. Chapter 2

_I'm in a weird mood, I blame it for the 101 Dalmatians reference and the two and a half men quote. Only one of them is ironically relevant...unless misha's next tweet involves shooting a Dalmatian. _

Dean is not having the best of weeks.

He'd lost the notes on an important meeting, screwed up the order of his slides in another and totally failed to remember a lunch date with the senior partner from one of their biggest client companies.

He'd slept maybe ten hours all week and he was on a constant attempt to catch up with work he should have done, or work he needed to do. Lying in bed half heartedly listening to the whale noise machine Jo had bought him for Christmas he was prepared to kill for sleep.

He snakes a hand under the sheet and rubs loose fingers into the softness of his cock. A frustrated breath hisses through his teeth. He fingers the skin, rubs a thumb across the head, teases it out, long and firm in his palm. The other hand shifts and cups his balls, rubbing behind with two fingers.

It takes him an age to get hard, petting and massaging life into his dick in a way that counterproductively reminds him of the runt in 101 Dalmatians. But eventually he gets there, dredging up every memory he can, going back to when he had time for sex. He winds up with the visual of his first girlfriend and a random blond guy he picked up in a bar two years ago, figures it'll do, and starts to settle into a rhythm. He hasn't done this lying in bed for a long time, usually he just lets it off in the shower before work, and only if he wakes up hard anyway. It's kind of nice, lying in a warm, comfortable bed and working himself lazily through his hand, greased slightly with warm, silky lube and rolling the skin back and forth as he goes.

Or at least it would be if he could keep his fantasy on track.

But the actual images keep disappearing and leaving him with nothing but an audio track to work with and it's not the right sound anyway. It's just a narration of what he's doing, _up and down, twist. Up and down, twist. Twist, down, slow-ly...little faster, slide your finger back...inside...there. Up and down, faster, twist..._

After a while the instructions come a fraction of a second before he performs the action, so now he's bossing himself around subconsciously.

This says all kinds of shit about his work/personal life relationship.

He's kind of far gone by this point, pumping in earnest, one hand alternatively teasing his ass and reaching out to fist the bed sheets as he arches up, so it takes him a while to realise that the narrator isn't using his voice.

It's the doctor.

Dean falters a little, hand going loose and abandoning its rhythm.

_Don't slow down! _Halfway between a command and a whine. _Keep going...oh...Oh, keep going...that's it... _as he begins to move his hand again, slick with lube and so, so close that he can't think beyond tightening his grip and sprinting for the edge, palm making wet, thick sounds as he jacks himself off.

The rasping voice in his head becomes even more involved, abandoning its original, detached observations and letting out breathy, _Oh God'_s as Dean twitches his hips up in a quick spasm, and comes into his own hand.

Collapsing back onto the mattress he gropes one handed for a tissue, wipes up the mess, tosses it into the waste basket and rolls over.

He manages seven hours of sleep that night.

And he doesn't dream, at all.

His appointment with the doctor is two days after he starts this. He jerks off both nights and sleeps heavily, almost coma like, for eight hours each time. Of course, both times the voice comes back, rough and intelligently authorative, whispering instructions and falling apart when he does in a rush of vocal bliss.

Dean's a little embarrassed to be seeing this guy again.

But at least he's not bone tired, and he'd also lost a pound and a half. Not much. But enough for him to have a little more confidence as he walks past the receptionist into Dr. Cas's office.

The other man takes brief stock of him over the rims of his glasses.

"You're sleeping better I take it?" is the first thing he says when Dean takes a seat. He feels the blush creep across his face, deepening with a burning intensity.

Cas barely looks at him, but nods to himself.

"Good. Sleep is the foundation of good health, can I assume you're finding genital stimulation effective in relaxing yourself?"

Dean's face blares with blood, hot and flushed as he tries to reign in his embarrassment.

"Yes." He says finally, eyes on the desk.

There's a long pause.

"I never fail to underestimate the shame people find in their own biology." The doctor says after a while. "It's a common, perfunctory release mechanism, and yet people still try and pretend that they are above it." He taps his pencil on a file folder. "There are magazines and websites of masturbatory material, it's an entire industry, and yet..." he lets the sentence trail off tellingly, making his point with his own silence and a wave of his hand. "On to the scale please." He finishes, and Dean does as asked.

The doctor is wrapping a tape measure around Dean's waist and saying 'of course, chafing is an issue, I'd advise a water based lubricant for daily sessions...' when Dean finally cracks.

"Are you _trying _to make me uncomfortable, or do you just have no boundaries, whatsoever?" He snaps, feeling the thin plastic tape being slipped across his shirt clad belly, slithering and gentle.

"Little of both." Cas says, somewhere near his shoulder, voice soft. The doctor's fingers follow the line of the tape, checking for kinks and twists, slipping underneath and pressing a little into the soft rise of flesh above his belt. Dean sucks in a breath and holds the muscles in his stomach stiff at the touch.

"Relax please." Cas says calmly, mouth close enough to Dean's ear to ghost air over the soft shell of it.

"Sorry." Dean mutters.

Cas takes measurements and notes the number on the scale, then lets Dean sidle back to his seat.

The doctor slides a sheet of paper over to him.

"What's this?" Dean asks before he even glances at it.

"Your meal plan for the next week, complex carbohydrates, lean protein and a variety of pulses, fruits and vegetables." The doctor says blithely.

"I told you I don't have time to cook all this stuff...I haven't been to a grocery store in..." he frowns. "A...long...time." he finishes lamely. He retrieves a bottle of water from his briefcase.

"And _I _told _you_ to spank it like a monkey in a mango tree." Cas says as soon as Dean takes a sip of water from the bottle.

He manages to hold it in, but only just. The doctor watches with mild amusement as Dean struggles to swallow the water and not send it all over the surface of the desk. "More sleep means better organisational skills and more energy." He taps the meal plan. "Cook a freaking zucchini and get over yourself."

"Do you get a lot of repeat patients or..." Dean lets it hang, pointedly.

"I do alright, now get out. I'll see you next week." Cas says, already flipping Dean's file closed and sliding it away.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean is not having the best meal ever.

About 90% of it is green. Lettuce, spring onions, rocket, cucumber, celery all surrounding a lonely sliced tomato, some brown rice and a few stringy pieces of mozzarella.

His stomach makes a truly terrible noise, like angry bees in a large, empty drain. He forks at the leaves disinterestedly.

He wouldn't mind...ok, he really really would, but if he was losing weight, it would be worth it, in a perverse sort of way. Pain would be equalled by success. But he's lost a measly half pound in the entire week, and he's been stuck eating nothing but salad, soup and fruit, all of which he's had to buy in raw form himself and make up, himself.

Improved sleep may be putting him in a better mood, but Dean's on edge and hungry the whole damn time, so he doesn't take kindly to the Doctor's attitude the next time he steps on the scale.

"Oh Dear." The other man says softly, readjusting the counter balance to check the result again.

"Your plan doc, not my fault." Dean growls, freezing when he feels deft fingers pluck at his belt, gently unsnapping it and dragging it loose from the loops at the waist of his pants.

"What are you..?"

"Getting a better reading." He murmurs. Dropping the soft length of leather to the floor, the doctor consults the scale again.

"Still not looking good is it." Dean mutters, ignoring the trace of sensation those fingers left behind.

"Give it time..." Cas says, drawing the thin plastic tape measure from his pocket. He measures around Dean's chest first, and the other man tries not to suck in a breath as the cool tape passes across his nipples, tweaking a startled reaction from them with its flimsy edge.

"...the plan is balanced, sustainable...it'll work..." The tape is slid down to his stomach, caressing the soft pouch of flesh that Dean himself pinches mournfully as he puts his clothes on in the morning. Cas cinches the tape and reads the figure with a soft 'Mmmm' of contemplation, letting the smooth plastic go slack, slipping down to Dean's abdomen before tightening again.

"...trust me." He finishes. Dean swallows and shuffles his feet as Cas's hands skirt the length of the tape, setting it flush to the fabric of his pants with several soft motions. The doctor 'harrumphs' softly and withdraws the tape in a loge pull, sending it skating across Dean's flesh subtly. Dean sucks in a breath and holds it till he's back in his seat.

Cas makes a few amendments to his chart and slides over another photocopied piece of paper.

"That's next week's menu."

Dean scans it a groans.

"More lettuce? Are kidding me?" he is starting to hate the limp contents of his fridge. "So I'm never getting meat again, ever?"

"Lose five pounds and we can negotiate." Cas says thoughtfully, "Until then...suck it up, it's only a vegetable."

"You don't even bite into it." Dean grumbles. "You bite through it, it's not even food."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch." Cas says, without looking up.

"Oh shut up." Dean scowls at the other man's bent head. "Like you can't just eat whatever you want and still look..." an appropriate simile fails him. _Good _is the word that suggests itself, but he doesn't know if he agrees, having not consciously looked at the Doctor that way at all.

Cas looks up and cocks his head to one side.

"Like Gwyneth Paltrow?" he offers, thankfully breaking Dean's little bubble of personal awkward silence.

"You wish, asshole." Dean sighs, folding the paper up and slipping it into his briefcase. Castiel notes the slight tensing of Dean's shoulders as he snaps the leather case closed.

"Work trouble?" He asks, lightly.

"Something like that." Dean rubs his fingers across the bridge of his nose and the lids of his closed eyes. "Sandover, that's my boss, he's breathing down my neck to raise productivity in my department."

"Which you can't?"

"Not without cutting a bunch of jobs and dropping salaries for the rest." Dean sighs. "Sorry for...it's not really stuff to offload onto you."

"I don't mind." And the statement is so short, uncomplicated with teasing or brusque professional manner that it makes them both trip, blinking at each other over the desk.

"Well...uh...thanks." Dean says at last. "Next week?"

"I'll see you." Castiel says, half to himself as Dean closes the door.

Work stress is something that effects...well, a huge amount of people, sue him if he doesn't have the exact statistic on hand. There have to be better ways of dealing with it than, well, this.

However, this is apparently the only way to keep from going insane with insomnia and start screwing up his job.

He runs his cock across his hand, curling his palm and wetting the length with a good amount of skin warmed lube. A muffled 'Oh God' slides from a corner of his brain at the first touch and it takes only minutes before he's lost in the steady process, curled up in his sitting position and angling down into his hand, other fist gripping fabric tight as short, struggling sounds catch in his throat. He wants, he really wants, to get it over with, to release the tension and fumble his way to bed...but he's enjoying it too much, drawing it out and teasing himself until he's biting his lip and his hand and wrist start to ache.

When the orgasm hits, it's a warm blur that slides the floor from under his feet and sets him drifting for a fraction of a second before the first lick of come courses down his clenched fist. With the first spasm of pleasure, he slaps a hand onto the surface of the desk, clutching and crinkling the papers that spill from a manila file. Words smudge under his fingers, oily with silken liquid, smearing _Height, weight...Smith..._ in delicious black arcs across the sheets.

Castiel jerks twice more into his own hand, fist clenched around another handful of crisp paper. He falls back into his desk chair, sweating and slowly coming back himself. Pants slit open in the dim light of his otherwise empty practice, Dean's smudged and lube speckled notes littering his desk and trickles of come binding his fingers.

He wishes, at the end of the session, that he could forget the softness of Dean under his hands, the slight tactile resistance of flesh before muscle, the smooth rise of his stomach that would press perfectly into his palm. Forget how warm the other man is under his ministrations, the ticking of his pulse in his throat, inches from Castiel's mouth as he presses a length of plastic tape where his hands cannot go.

Unlike the traces of release, smudged with a tissue and tossed into the trash, these thoughts are not easy to dispose of. He finds his keys, shuts off the lights, and fumbles home under the influence of dying endorphins.


	4. Chapter 4

_This is probably the last instalment, because random PWP is pretty much concluded, though I kight revisit the idea of weightloss!Dean later because I just read 'Good in Bed' by Jennifer Weiner and it's given me ideas. _

Castiel is having trouble.

He's having trouble sleeping, working, paying attention when Dean is talking to him from his seat across the desk. He's in a near constant state of blood buzzing arousal and having Dean around makes it worse, taking care of it only makes it worse, like thorns growing again with vicious insidiousness every time he cuts away their creeping influence. He's insanely grateful for the desk between them as his eyes travel from the cut of Dean's cheekbone, to his lips, the slight curve of his cheek, the way his shirt is taut on his upper arms, broad with muscle sheathed in soft flesh. He rakes his eyes down the firm pectorals, to the slight rise just above the leather belt and almost too tight tailored pants.

"Cas?"

"Mmm?" he looks up sharply to find Dean tapping the desk irritably.

"I said, I lost four and a half pounds...pony up the steak, I'm turning vegan here."

"I said five pounds." Castiel says absently, thinking of 58 year old Mrs. Almany, the time he'd slammed three fingers in his car door, Gabriel downing chocolate liquor and throwing up on his couch. None of it helping.

Dean sighs.

"So weigh me, took forever to walk here, maybe that last half just..." he makes a 'phft' disappearing motion with his hand.

Castiel motions him towards the scales.

"Shoes off." He reminds him, and Dean kicks them off obediently, then opens his belt and slides it free.

Castiel swallows. He should not, not, have power in the condition he's in. Read – helpless infatuated, mostly hard and in need of fresh masturbatory material for the period of time he intends to spend lube soaked and flat out in his office, immediately after Dean's appointment.

But his ethical brain is being distracted by the calculation of the last time he'd actually had sex, or naked contact with anyone. So he's free to do whatever he wants.

"Clothes too." He says, and Dean looks at him quizzically. "Do you want an accurate reading or not?" he sighs, feigning belligerence. "You can keep your underwear on."

Dean wavers. "I don't really want anyone to see...you know..." he folds his arms uncomfortable across his stomach, in a self-conscious gesture at odds with his usual personality. Castiel feels another slight throb of blood at the idea that Dean is _shy_, he has no idea of the effect he has, of how much Castiel is fighting the temptation to do whatever he can to preserve Dean in this form. Approachable, comfortable and just a little warm and soft.

"Steak." Is what he says, pointedly. And it works. Dean sighs and unclasps his pants, stripping them down and taking off his socks as well. Castiel watches, even though Dean probably thinks he shouldn't, he can't help it, watching the small fold in Dean's stomach as he bends, soft and toned, the slow unbuttoning of his shirt, awkward and abashed, revealing skin that's starved of sun, but light brown and freckled by nature. Castiel twitches the seam of his pants to one side and moves to stand behind Dean as the other man takes his place on the scale, thanking God for that small mercy, though being exposed to Dean's boxer briefs, snug and black and skin tight, is surely something of the devils work.

Dean shifts from foot to foot uneasily, crossing and uncrossing his arms over the small curve of his belly, hunching his shoulders and frowning down at himself.

He can hear Castiel breathing.

He hears Castiel all the time now of course, the mental voice that accompanies his hand as he touches himself. He hears him tell him he's good, (_Oh so good_) or that he should hold back or move faster, touch here, or there and press harder. He feels phantom measuring tape tracing his damp skin, light hands fluttering over his waist and abdomen, but never quite touching.

Oh God _damn _it.

He closes his eyes and tries to fight his reaction to the other man's presence. Why tight underwear? Why today. Though of course 'tight' and 'loose' were relative and most of his stuff was too snug now anyway, despite the small amount of weight he'd lost.

"Ok...I'm going to take some measurements now." Castiel's voice comes clear and calm over his shoulder, and then cold tape touches his skin and Dean jumps without meaning to. A warm hand traces the spot where the tape touched.

"Sorry." Castiel's says softly.

Dean swallows and tries to imagine Sam, naked and covered in broccoli, doing the backstroke through some blue cheese dip sprinkled with drain hair.

Not. Fucking. Working.

Castiel returns the tape to his skin and it skims, hand warm and pliant, against the swell of his stomach and his waist. Dean sucks in a breath, chest tight and heart thumping like he's downed a pint of coffee. Tension headache swelling in his temples as he tries to think of anything but Castiel standing right behind him, looking at him and almost touching him.

"Ok that's..." Castiel peers over his shoulder and Dean turns his head a little the other way, relising belatedly that in checking the measuring tape Castiel is looking straight down his body.

Dean lets the breath out shakily. Hears Castiel's hitch behind him.

Dean can feel the line of his own erection, pressing into the soft but skin-tight cotton of his underwear, sealing the hot flesh against his thigh. He can feel it burning there, dampening and pressing out, up, anywhere for sensation. Dean bites his tongue, hard, but the pain doesn't drive the heat out of his veins, the gooseflesh from his skin.

He waits for Cas to bustle away with forced professionalism, leaving him embarrassed on the scales.

Castiel's fingers touch the vulnerable skin of his side, too smooth to be an accident. Dean swallows and doesn't move, feeling a crawling embarrassment over his body and shame for his lack of control.

"Dean?"

The fingers trail down and Dean shivers.

"You'd let me know..."

They find the band of his underwear, one fingertip pressing into his flesh to slide beneath.

"If I was doing anything..." His voice catches, fingers sliding out of his underwear to brush down his abdomen, side of one long finger trailing the length of his cock.

"To make you uncomfortable." He finishes into dead silence.

Dean can hear himself breathing, harsh and excited by the one light touch of index finger, running over the topside of the plump cock resting on his thigh. Castiel's breath is on the back of his neck, light by quick, small panting puffs of air.

Cas moves his hand a little and trails the finger along him again, and this time, Dean shudders and a small moan escapes thinly. The doctor's hand turns and four fingertips massage his length, delicately moving from root to tip, pressing over into the head before working back with light, even pressure.

"Tell me what you want me to do." Castiel murmurs, making the hairs on the back of Dean's neck prickle.

One handed, clumsy and shaking, Dean drags down the waistband of his underwear, taking Cas's hand in his own and laying his fingers directly on the overheated skin of his cock. Castiel presses his face into the side of Dean's neck, hand closing around the rigid flesh briefly before he raises his hand, over Dean's shoulder, licking his palm in one quick move, and returning it to where Dean's underwear is bunched around his thighs.

Dean moans at the contact, Castiel buries his face in the hot skin of his neck, his other hand tugging his pants open and shoving them and his underwear down. Dean's body jerks as Castiel fumbles the back of his underwear over his buttocks and down his thighs a little, but he rocks back against the Doctor when he feels the press of his erection against his skin, rutting helplessly between his cheeks as Castiel strokes Dean's cock one handed.

Castiel's other palm cups the softness of Dean's belly, fingering the trail of hair and cradling the smooth warm flesh as he moans into the back of Dean's neck. His hand moves quickly, firmly and with a good deal of practice, the motion made easier by his position behind the other man. Dean's knees feel disconnected, his legs shaking with effort as Castiel rubs him harder and jerks behind him, spreading slickness up his cleft with a last thrust, spurting again against the small of his back, a harsh gasp and a cry stirring the hair at the nape of Dean's neck.

Castiel finishes him, looking over his shoulder, down Dean's flushed chest to where both his hands are touching him, one kneading his stomach, the other slipping up and down his cock to its own rhythm. Castiel rubs his spent cock against the swell of flesh before him, still wet with his release, watching Dean twitch in his hand and then pulse readily over his fingers with a short groan.

Panting, Dean leans a hand against the scale to keep upright, Castiel leaning against his back and breathing heavily as he strokes Dean back to softness.

"Cas..." Dean whimpers at the next touch, overly used and sensitive to the touch.

Castiel stops touching him and moves away for a second.

"Don't turn around." He says, when Dean starts to move. Dean stays facing the wall over the scales.

"What are we doing?" He asks hoarsely.

He hears cloth hitting the floor and shivers at the thought of Castiel, naked, then jumps as warm skin returns to press against his back. Castiel turns him and presses him to the wall, eyes fixed to Dean's as he slowly pushes his bunched underwear down to where Dean can slip his feet out of it.

"Anything." Castiel says, and kisses him, warm and wet and greedy, like he's wanted to for a long time. He breaks away to look Dean in the eye again. "And then, we get steak."


End file.
